


Covert Operation

by calicofold



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Conscription, Pacifism, Partner Betrayal, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicofold/pseuds/calicofold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After TSBBS, a whole new slant on what Jim Ellison really wants -- and what Blair Sandburg is made of. If you don't like partner betrayal, or cliff hangers,or waiting a very long time for the next part, or if you seriously think that might makes right, then you probably won't like this.</p><p>I.    Covert Operation. Set after TSbBS, Jim reveals his true colours.</p><p>This is as complete as it is ever likely to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jim shook his head. Nine years. He couldn't believe it had really taken this long to achieve his objective, but well, that was life, and it was over now. The roar of the plane was too loud in his ears as they travelled south. Apart from that it was virtually silent. The pilot had not said a word to him since picking them up outside Cascade, and their other companion... He glanced over his shoulder to double check. He was still quiet, sprawled over two seats, the powerful sedative keeping him deep asleep. He frowned when he saw the blankets covering him had slid off to show the precautionary wrist and ankle cuffs. He reached back and tucked them carefully back up over the man. It was freezing in the unheated military transport, and Sandburg hated getting cold. Besides, it had taken this long to confirm and acquire the Guide, pneumonia would simply hold up the induction period unnecessarily. Finally, thankfully, he was _out_. 

Major James Ellison of the US Army, and the first fully operational Sentinel in three decades, was a free man. At _last_. No more pretending to be a civilian. None of the slavish following of 'official police procedure', or worrying about how it would look in court. No. He could do what he had been born to do, what he had been trained to do, and take direct action when the 'proper' channels failed, whether inside or outside the US, without the constant worry of accountability, and budget pinching, publicity conscious supervisors on his back the whole time. And it would be better than last time. When he came back, it transpired at debriefing they known all about people like him -- sentinels, and were eager to put him to use, until they were forcibly reminded about the guide issue when Jim had a white-out in training. So they had taken him off the active roster until he had a guide. He had protested at first. Then he'd wanted Incacha, but it was considered politically hazardous to take an indigenous Peruvian national. Apart from dangers of political suicide should it ever come out, the man was not a US citizen, and perforce, Guide or not, was deemed to be a security risk. Instead, he was pushed around from city to city, job to job, waiting for a posting that would hook him up with someone who would become his guide. 

They'd finally settled on Cascade, after a number of indications from another covert ops team - an unlikely pairing of a precog talent and an assassin, that he 'should be there'. He had never bought into the mysticism crap, but always the good soldier he followed his orders, and found himself back in his home town. Posing as a civilian, he joined the police department there, and settled down to wait for his guide to show up. Carolyn had been promising, but the moment he experimented using her to back up his senses he found himself lost in a fugue state. She was a complete washout. He waited six months, becoming colder and more withdrawn until she herself initiated divorce proceedings, bewildered by the sudden change in her husband, and unwilling to put up with it any more. 

Five years on, his patience was finally rewarded. A trawl of research proposals brought up one Blair Sandburg, BA, MA, and ABD. Investigations had come up clean, if a little weird, but the army could put up with that, even if Jim Ellison didn't want to. He'd been furious at first at the thought of relying on some hippie flower child as his partner, refused to contact him -- so the army had acted without him, and when his PD boss ordered him to hospital, they paid one of the nursing staff to fax his chart to the prospective guide. He wasted weeks protesting the choice, time where he repeatedly nearly screwed up, and almost lost his new found partner to a bomber, white supremacists, drug dealers, and the final straw, a serial killer. Sarris had been lucky to survive the Sentinel's reflexive protection of his guide. When Lash kidnapped his partner, the sentinel's full killing rage was unleashed, and Jim was forced to acknowledge that he was imprinting, however reluctantly. 

Ever since then he had deliberately pulled Blair deeper and deeper into Jim's world, to the point that he was readily handling undercover assignments, guns, and ultimately, letting him throw his life away in a fit of pointless altruism. 

No one would be surprised at Blair's disappearance after the farce of that press conference. The miracle would be if anyone even bothered checking on him. Major Crimes might be a problem, but Banks and Connor were injured, and he was pretty sure the rest wouldn't bother to look. And Naomi... it had taken a lot of effort to maneuver her into a position that she would run away from her son, too ashamed to really talk to him. Divide and conquer. 

It had been pathetically easy to drug his roommate's dinner. So much so he'd almost regretted the necessity. But Blair hadn't even noticed Jim tipping the recommended dosage of sedative into his portion of lasagna. Well, if it proved nothing else, at least he now knew that his skills weren't too rusty despite the passing of time. He was too buzzed to sleep. He'd seen the briefing on their first proposed mission, and he couldn't wait to stretch himself, flexing his abilities to their full for the first time ever. 

He relaxed, watching the lights of the cities far below. They'd be home soon, safely back in Nevada. He touched a hand to his guide, and narrowed his focus in until he could see individual houses and streets blurring by. He pulled back easily, and smiled. The breadth of his abilities was extraordinary, and totally wasted as a police officer. Now that Sandburg had been neatly separated from his support structures and anyone else who might interfere, they could get on with the real work. Blair had been operating on instinct up until now, and hadn't done badly, but it was time to get him properly prepared. It would take a few weeks for them to train his partner, but he was pretty sure that the young shaman would be up to speed in no time. 

It might be a hassle getting Sandburg to co-operate, but he was sure the man would buckle down once it had all been explained. 

After all, they were friends. 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

The covers were crisp and fresh, and he curled deeper into their warmth. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he knew there was something -- off, but he settled down to get back to sleep, assuming that Jim would wake him if he was missing anything important. Maybe it was a case, or some meeting... but he was going to enjoy the best sleep he'd had in months. 

There _was_ something off... He frowned, and kept his eyes shut as he tried to figure it out. There was something about the smell - it smelled like Mexico, not Cascade. The sweet, fresh scent of wet stone and earth that permeated everything in the damp city was missing. The air was dry, and the air was warm, not just the covers. 

A polite knock dragged him out of his increasingly worried daze, and he rolled over, forcing one eye open to growl at Ellison. 

But it wasn't Ellison at the door. 

Someone in the greens of army service was holding a tray, and Blair could smell breakfast. He sat up, pulling away towards the wall behind him, taking in the wholly unfamiliar surroundings. 

"Who are you?! What's this?" he snapped out, but the soldier -- Blair had no idea what rank the stripes indicated, and didn't _want_ to know, placed the tray on the table by his bed and saluted. 

"Compliments of General Davison, sir. The general will be available for your first briefing meeting at eleven hundred hours. Please ask the corporal on the door to show you the general's office." 

"Wait a fucking minute!!" Blair yelled, struggling out of the bedding tangled about his legs, but the soldier turned and closed the door behind him before he could reach him, the distinct 'snick' informing him that he was locked in. 

Sandburg was left standing in the middle of the tiny room, staring at the gray door. _Gun metal gray,_ he thought sourly, and then, _Jim! Oh my god! Jim!_ His eyes darted frantically around the room. There was a window, but even a cursory glance told him it was a sealed unit, fixed into the wall without a hope in hell of opening. He moved the tray of food to the floor, picked up the table, and swung it with all his strength at the glass. The table top splintered, but the glass didn't so much as mark. "Shit," he whispered, then bit his lip. _Not a word. Not a word out loud, or they'll find out about Jim.... god what if they took him too? Who the hell are they? maybe they're not even legit--_

"Hey, Chief, you're awake." Jim's voice broke into his panicked thoughts, and Blair gasped. He whirled to find Jim peering cheerfully through another a door , this one apparently into an adjoining room, from what he could see over the man's shoulder. 

"Shit! They got you too, man? Can you break this? I don't think it's--" 

"Hey, hey, calm down. And don't go breaking stuff, they'll only take it out your pay check." 

"Pay--What--" Blair couldn't get the words out as his entire world wrenched out of joint. 

"Well, they're not slavers, are they? There're laws about this sort of thing. It's a pretty good pay scale too. You're in as a civilian expert, and I gotta tell you, _I_ don't get that kind of money --yet," he finished with a friendly grin. 

Blair retreated, eyes suddenly wary and confused, until he was stopped by the wall pressing against his bare back. He could feel the stickiness of sweat, the coolness of an air conditioning vent, and his mind re-processed the smell of hot sand and the acrid tang of machine oil that had half registered as he lay dozing. He swallowed. "What have you done? Who _are_ you?" he said in quiet horror. 

Ellison was in uniform, looking somehow harder and more relaxed, as though he was comfortable in his own skin finally. He half smiled, and offered a hand. "Major James Ellison, US Army." He waited, then dropped his hand as Blair stared at it like it was a live grenade. 

"US Army?" He took a quick step forward. "God, Jim, what did they do to you? Did they threaten you? Did they threaten _me_? You can't give in to them, whatever it is they want. Look, we can probably get out if we--" 

"No." 

"What?" Blair blinked in absolute confusion. "Look, you can't want to--" 

"I said, _no_ , Sandburg. What part of that are you not getting?" Ellison's lips narrowed, and for a moment Blair barely recognised him. "Look, you've got a couple of hours to get up and get ready. I'll see you in ten, okay?" 

"No! No, it's not okay? What the _hell_ is going on? _Tell_ me, Jim! Who are these people? Where are we? What's wrong?" he asked urgently, in a low voice. "Jim, man, what's happened? Are you okay?" 

Ellison shrugged, and sighed. "Look, eat your breakfast, I promise it's got nothing in it, and get dressed. There's some clothes in the closet." 

"What closet?" 

Jim pulled open yet another door almost invisibly set into the wall, revealing Blair's entire wardrobe, shoes neatly lined up at the bottom of the closet, everything organised into jackets, shirts, pants, and Blair turned away, bile burning at the back of his throat. He shook off the hand that gripped gently at his shoulder. "Don't touch me, man," he said reflexively, then shivered. 

Jim chuffed a laugh, "Just get dressed, all right? You'll feel better once you've showered and eaten." Blair caught the flicker of Jim's eyes to the breakfast tray. "You haven't even touched your coffee! No wonder you're so wound up about this." 

Blair glared at him. "I'm 'wound up' as you put it, because we're god knows where, being held by god knows who, and you're _okay_ with this? What the fuck happened to your private life? Your need for secrecy, you--" his voice slowed as appalled realisation spread across his face. " _This_ was why?" he said, his voice hoarse with shock. 

Jim was nodding slowly. "You're starting to get it. Always knew you were bright, Sandburg." he turned to go back into his own room. "Knock when you're ready to go. Or yell. These walls are pretty thin." 

The door shut and Sandburg slid down the wall. He let his head drop to his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs. He drew a deep breath, then let it out again, slowly. His first instinct, to talk through the problem, had just become a serious liability. He swallowed as he thought of the sentinel's ability to listen to the softest tones, the least breath - abilities that he had been in awe of, that he had documented with increasing excitement with every new achievement. He groaned softly. Jim as cop he could stomach -- the guns were a problem, but he could understand the need, on a one to one basis, to arm a police force against armed criminals. Jim rarely used the gun anyway, half the time he dropped it, and Blair grinned briefly, then frowned. If he understood the implications that Jim had been making correctly, Jim was in -- had never left, covert ops. That implied in turn a level of expertise that should have prevented such mistakes. He started to wonder for the first time if such incidents, tiny lapses of concentration were truly because the man zoned out. He frowned, no, it could simply be that the man was over compensating for being in civilian cover. Maybe he had always been acting a part. 

He shivered, closing his eyes in denial. Maybe _all_ of it had been a lie. There was no friendship. No cop -- no _Jim_. 

No. 

"Get a move on, Sandburg!" Jim's voice called through the thin partition board. 

Blair pressed his face harder into his knees, until bright sparks of light swirled and merged behind his eyelids. It was too surreal. Jim almost sounded normal, in this most abnormal of places. 

"Six impossible things before breakfast," he whispered to himself, and unwrapped his arms, then stood up. He'd take his shower; eat his breakfast; see this General Davison. And then... 

Blair allowed himself a ferocious grin. 

Naomi's little boy was about to show this man's army _just_ how much it had bitten off.

* * *


	3. Covert Ops 3: Detente

"The General's office, sir." 

Blair walked through the door with a nod and a smile for the man holding it open. It closed behind him softly, and he noted the details of the room in one quick glance - the window looking out over a road bounded by wire fences, the flag and presidential pictures, the shelves of books, files and raggedly stacked papers, some showing the red and white tags of classified information. 

"Mr. Sandburg! Welcome!" A man in stiffly formal military dress stepped out from behind the dark wooden desk, hand outstretched. "I'm General Davison. I hope everything is to your satisfaction?" 

Blair smiled slightly, flicked a dismissive glance at the man's hand and met his eyes coolly. "No, sir, it's not. I didn't ask to come here, I don't want to be here, and you have no legal means to force me to stay here." He folded his arms, waiting. They won't fold, he thought clinically, but let no sign of it reach his face. 

"Mr. Sandburg, you are a guest of this facility." The General didn't miss a beat. He perched on the edge of his desk and continued jovially, "You are entirely free to go, just as soon as we have agreed your status in relation to Major Ellison." 

"Right. Ahuh. Sure. And how long will that 'determination' take?" 

The General smiled faintly. "We have no means of identifying that period at this time." 

Blair was shaking his head slowly. His brain had already kicked into high gear, everything he'd heard, overheard or discussed over the years and never expected to have to apply to himself was rushing back to him. Each piece slipped into place with the ease of tumblers in a lock. "Remember the Thirteenth Amendment? You can't tie anyone to involuntary servitude." He pulled a chair up and sat down, crossing his legs, and smiled at the brief look of irritation that crossed General Davison's face. 

It didn't last. Davison nodded. "Very true, Mr. Sandburg. We could of course simply draft you." 

"Wouldn't Congress be interested in why you wanted to rush the draft back into force - for just one man? And that's supposing it got through and the President signed the order." Blair shook his head. "And you'd *still* need me to volunteer - and I am not raising my hand or taking one step forward for you." 

"How about for your country? Doesn't that move you at all, Mr. Sandburg? Contributing something to the country that has cared for you all your life?" 

"I contributed at the door," Blair said dryly, then added, "Don't you think I'd already be there if I thought I had something to offer her in a military capacity? I pay my dues in my own currency. I'm a teacher. A researcher. A scientist and a detective. You seem to be confusing serving her with killing for her. And for what it's worth, I am completely morally opposed to war, any war, and therefore to military service." 

"And yet you registered." He raised an eyebrow. 

Blair shrugged, "No federal school grants if you don't -- when you're eighteen and someone offers you money, you sign anything. And even then I noted my objections on moral grounds to war." 

"So you did, Mr. Sandburg. So you did." The General moved back to behind his desk and seated himself. He leaned forwards, steepling his fingers, elbows resting on the dark oak. "I have some folders for you to read. They should cover most of the questions you have," his eyes showed something like triumph, "including your application for A-O-1 exempt status, and appeal. Perhaps I should have given them to you sooner, but I had hoped your sense of patriotic duty, or even your attachment to Major Ellison would have shown you the right choice to make." 

Blair took the files, jaw tight, and shook his head as he opened the first folder without looking inside. "These are all illegal, you know. You can't seriously believe I won't challenge these in every court in the land?" 

"What makes you think you'll get that opportunity?" Davison snapped. His face smoothed out and he visibly relaxed his hands and mouth. "Let me tell you a story, Mr. Sandburg." 

Blair snorted. "Bad analogy coming up. Bring it on, Davison. Hey, what's your first name? Michael? George? You look like a George. Can I call you George? George?" 

Davison's teeth gritted, and he kept on talking. "About, let's say, a police dog, a special animal trained in search and rescue, and his trainer. The dog is exceptionally good at his job, but is useless without his trainer. That trainer has done an amazing job, given up years of his life -- done everything he could for that dog, even when it bit him, or messed up, he just carried on, fixed the problems, made that dog the best possible. The trainer is only good for making the dog the best search and rescue dog possible, he doesn't have any searching skills on his own. They are a team. And then a chance comes up for the dog to rescue people in another area - somewhere the trainer's never been because he doesn't like the natives or the local customs. Is he going to refuse to help the innocents, just because he doesn't approve of the system he would have to work in? Or would he help people, regardless?" 

Blair shook his head, his lips in a thin line. "False analogy. If I thought you were going to use the dog to do just search and rescue, you might have a point. But you want more, and the second the trainer agrees to *one* thing, just *one* in your agenda, he will ultimately find himself in the position of justifying all of it. You'd still want the dog to hunt down - and if necessary, maim and murder those that you didn't approve of, for whatever reason." 

"That isn't--" 

"No," Blair overrode him. "If I agree to any part of the idea that military intervention is necessary, and sign up, then I automatically sign myself up to everything else, including the needless slaughter of civilians, of teenagers who thought that fighting was the right thing to do, the destruction of homes, communities, lifestyles, ecosystems, and if we're really unlucky, entire nations and then our entire planet." 

"The cold war is over, Mr. Sandburg," the general smiled patronizingly. 

"Which one? The loud one against Russia, or the quiet ones in South America? The international actions in Europe and Africa? The Far East maybe, or the interventions in the CIS, or the actions in the Middle East?" Blair shook his head sharply. "I understand you perfectly well. It would suit you to have some kind of super soldier. Maybe you could even clone him, breed up a whole raft of 'dogs'. But I won't help you do it." 

Davison's eyebrows lifted. "Not even to help your friend?" 

"I *am* helping him. Helping him out of a trap he doesn't even realize he's in." 

"He sees it as a career choice, a good one, wisely made," Davison countered. "All his adult life we've looked after him, better than his family ever did. He's done more, been more, been better appreciated and better understood in the family of the army than anywhere else." 

"Stereotypic behavior," Blair shrugged, tone coolly clinical. "The animal that's known only cages becomes afraid of the wide open spaces of freedom. They make themselves a new cage, and then reproduce the same repetitive actions that their first cage drove them to. Just because your 'dog' doesn't recognize freedom, or know what to do with it when he has it, does not mean that his trainer should be forced into the cage with him. If the only way I can help him see that is to refuse to help, then I *have* to follow through." 

"And if he dies, because of your refusal to help?" The general scowled contemptuously at him. 

"That's not my refusal to help that's killing him." Blair shook his head slowly, eyes clear and confident. "That's your refusal to acknowledge that he should not be placed in situations where he is likely to be killed. Don't put him, gun in hand, in a place where someone will shoot him, and then tell me it's my fault that people died. It isn't." 

"Do you really believe that? Would you be able to tell his family, his friends that at his funeral?" 

Blair shrugged, "What other people think is their problem. And seeing him dead, yeah, I'll give you a freebie, it would hurt, horribly. But I'd know the right person to blame, and it wouldn't be me." His eyes met the general's squarely. 

There was a long silence. 

"If it helps, I'll swear to a military court that we're are sleeping together." Blair grinned wickedly, "What's the phrase -- I have committed and intend to commit further homosexual acts with an officer on active service?" 

General Davison looked vaguely queasy. "We, uh, already covered that - you might want to look over the files I gave you." 

Blair looked at him curiously. 

"The psych eval. The green segment." 

Blair flicked the indicated file open and for a few moments there was only the rustle of pages being turned. A grin spread over his face, widened and then broke into outright sniggers. "Oops. You can't get rid of me that way then. But, you know, it's good to know I have the official stamp of heterosexuality from the army." He read on, and the smile dropped from his face. 

"You had no right - no right AT ALL, to interview my friends and ex's." He snapped the folder shut and glared. "I can't say it surprises me though. Everything I've seen, heard and read only confirms my opinion that I want nothing to do with an outfit that perpetrates such fundamental human rights abuses against individuals." 

"You're adamant that you will not help Major Ellison as a member of the military." The general's voice betrayed no sign of the irritation evident in the thinned lips and narrowed eyes. "Would you be interested if we offered you a role as a civilian consultant. No combat, no active participation in missions?" 

"What good would that do anyone?" 

Davison shrugged, "It might work. Give you a radio, keep you well away from combat zones. If Ellison's as good as your work suggests he is then you might not even need the radio. You focus on keeping him from catatonic overload, let him get on with the job." 

"Close my eyes to *what* he's using his senses for? If I give him a loaded gun, I can't complain when he kills someone with it. So why should I help him and pretend I don't know what it's for? I'd be equally morally responsible." 

"I notice you're not pretending not to know what we're talking about any more." 

Blair shrugged. "What's the point. You obviously knew what he was before I ever met him." He took a breath as if to continue, then let it go again. 

"You wanted to know about the other sentinels we have? The data we've collected?" The general was quick to see the chink. 

"No. Not unless, uh, only if there're no strings attached." Blair scowled, and added, "And I'm quite sure you've got so many strings attached it'll look like a crazy spider's web." 

Davison shrugged minutely, "You anticipate me. Material collated on sentinels is classified. For obvious reasons." 

"Yeah. That's just *so* obvious. Never mind that Burton is public domain, and that sentinels could exist outside of the military..." 

"You know other sentinels?" Davison jumped in sharply, hoping to throw Blair. 

Blair shrugged, "Nope, but I found one, and presumably you've got more, so I figure they exist without your intervention - hell, the bare existence of Burton's work is proof that they exist without your sterling assistance." 

Davison snorted. "Mr Sandburg, your sentinel studies are the first in fifty years. Your sentinel is the first new one in slightly more than that - we haven't had a sentinel listed for active duty in the US since the early seventies, when she took disability." He flickered a glance at Sandburg, and then out the window, "after her guide died in Viet Nam." 

"She *took*?" Sandburg asked slowly. 

"Was put on. Whatever you want to call it. She's still alive. Catatonic in a veterans home, but alive." He shrugged, "If you want to call it alive." 

Sandburg visibly flinched, and Davison allowed himself to relax fractionally. Psych were guessing that if Sandburg's attention could be grabbed by Sheila Terrell's plight, they might be in with a chance. 

Sandburg shook his head, frowning, "Thirty years in... how--" He looked up and caught the neutral look. "Aahh," he caught on fast. "No. I'm not interested in your sentinel." 

"You're not even willing to help someone who's in her seventies? Who will never go into combat again?" Davison looked him over disdainfully. "Your precious morals about the sanctity of life and the right to live as you choose don't hold much water, do they?" 

"Oh, no. You're not laying that trip on me. You know, all that tells me here, man, is *exactly* why I should stand my ground on this. Say I say yes, and Jim and I go out and do our marvellous non-combat status black ops mission thing. And say, I get shot in the head, or some other part of my anatomy that I'd prefer not shot. And Jim winds up in a coma for the next thirty years until you try to use emotional blackmail on the next hapless guide you try to force into working for you?" 

"As a civilian consultant you wouldn't be in the front lines. Major Ellison would be responsible for your safety -- hell, he's more likely to die saving your chickenshit skin, than you are his." 

"Low blow, General." He drew a deep breath and let his fists unclench. "And it doesn't even have the advantage of being true." His face quirked in a cold smile. "It's a partnership. Symbiosis, not parasitic. I've saved his life as often as he's saved mine. And the way I figure it, I'm saving his life again. I'm better off insisting that Jim stay non-combatant. That way *neither* of us is in a position where we end up maimed, mutilated, spindled or otherwise incapacitated." He tilted his head back to look General Davison full in the face. "You *can't* use him while I'm his guide, and while I refuse to co-operate." 

Davison smiled slowly. "There are ways to secure your co-operation, Mr Sandburg." 

"Do what you like. I wish you luck finding my Mom after what happened last week, and right now, you know, I don't give a fuck what you do to her if you *do* find her." He finished bitterly. "No one else cares what happens to me." 

"Ellison does." Davison said softly, triumphantly. 

"Oh, yeah, *right*. Witness me standing alone in a military compound after my illegal kidnapping by said Ellison. I don't *think* so." 

Davison's eyebrows twitched, and he allowed himself a smile. "Well then. The solution is easy. I kill you. I'm pretty sure we can arrange for it to look like a suicide. Perhaps something ... graphic. Auto-erotic asphyxiation maybe. That should make sure you go out with a bang. Can you imagine the last headlines? And of course, Ellison will either just be embarrassed, or maybe in a coma, or maybe we'll arrange for his indictment for your murder. Discharge him for conduct unbecoming first, maybe. A nice civilian trial. I understand cops always do so well in jail." 

"I don't believe you. You can't do that." Blair's fists clenched around the files he was holding until the thin card buckled. 

"You have no idea what I can or cannot do, Mr Sandburg. No idea." 

Blair visibly hesitated, and then caught the glint in Davison's eye. "No. If I'm dead then Jim won't care where he is. You said it yourself, he'll be catatonic in some Vets hospital. And if I'm dead, I won't care what you do with my body. Hell, most of my friends will assume that I died with a smile on my face if you put that kind of thing about." 

"Death does not trouble you?" 

"At the risk of sounding clichéd, been there, done that." 

"And there is nothing--" the phone rang and Davison's face tightened with annoyance. 

"Davison." 

"What? Who authorised that? I don't care. Major Ellison is not -- no. I can arrange for that to be dealt with." Davison turned back to fix cold eyes on Sandburg. 

Blair's eyes narrowed, bright intelligence meeting Davison's grim features. "Oh gee. Did the poor ickle sentinel zone?" he asked with mock sympathy. "Poor Jimmy's zoned," Blair sing-songed under his breath. "Hey Jimmy, wakey-wakey. Show the nice man your impression of a real human being." 

He held Davison's eyes, until the General looked away. "He's probably waking up about now, Sergeant," he instructed. "No. I have another source of information." 

"You arrange that, or was it just fortuitous?" 

"It wasn't prevented." Davison replied ambiguously. His face offered no clues. 

"Ah." Blair mimicked the poker face. Davison watched him curiously for a long moment, then leaned forward, folding his hands almost demurely on his desk. 

"Mr Sandburg. Please understand. Major Ellison believes in what we do. He believes so much that he went into civilian life undercover for nine years because he truly believed it would allow him to do his job better." 

"He's not immortal. Nine years -- how much longer can you send him out on missions? How long before he's too old, too slow, too *dead*?" 

"That's an operational decision, and mine to make. The Major appears to be in good condition. For a civilian." 

"Right. Right. I forgot: human lives, just something to use up." 

"No. Something to *use*," Davison corrected with cool malice. "I don't like you, Mr. Sandburg." He ignored Sandburg's muttered comment. "But you don't appear to understand that I don't need to like you. I don't even need you to like me; me or the military. All I require is your obedience. And If I cannot persuade you to it, I will break you to it." 

"And everything that makes me his perfect guide will break with my will," Blair said softly. "Break me, and I will fracture in every part of me. You'll kill the golden goose, for the sake of the gold dust in its bones. Boil me down, render me a malleable tool, and that is all I will be. Utterly obedient and utterly useless." 

"But you'll still be our tool." 

Blair shrugged. "I will lose my mind knowing that I have won." 

"And of course that doesn't bother you at all; a noble sacrifice indeed." But Davison's sarcasm masked cold anger, and Blair grinned smugly. 

"Did you never have one single principle worth dying for?" he asked conversationally, and dropped the folders back onto Davison's desk. "I've already given up my life for him. On my terms. Everything else," he shrugged, "everything else is just nothing. Dust and ashes." 

Davison hit the intercom on his desk. "Sergeant, please escort Mr. Sandburg back to his rooms." He glared at him. "This is not a game, Mr. Sandburg. This is not an academic tea party, or a hippie commune. This is the real world. You might want to inject some RealPolitick into your view of it." 

Blair stood and nodded politely at the sergeant. "Have a *nice* day, General Davison, sir." And he walked out, turning his back on the man in a gesture of pure, calculated contempt.

* * *


	4. Covert Ops 4: Scission

"Sir." Ellison stood parade ground straight, waiting. 

Davison ignored him for several long minutes, ostensibly reading a file. The folder was tilted away from Ellison, all he could see was the number across the top,, and beneath them, Ellison, J.J.. He kept his eyes level with the shelves behind the general's desk, noting the titles, and wondering at the man who had _Raising Your Catholic Child_ jammed in tight next to Chomsky's _Rogue States_ , and a battered copy of an Agatha Christie omnibus next to Tom Clancy's _Bio-Strike_ , which by the look of it had never been so much as cracked. 

"Ellison." Davison closed the file and looked up at him. "Have a seat, Major." 

"Thank you, sir." 

Davison sighed. "I'll get right to the point. Your first report on Sandburg was very emphatic that you could not work together. He was," he pulled out a sheet and frowned at it, "'undisciplined, drugged up, over-confident, irresponsible student, who had no idea of real life beyond that pumped out by the morons down in Southern California who believe that holding hands will keep the San Andreas fault from being mean to them.'. I quote." He slid the sheet back into the file and smiled, an expression that barely moved hislips and reflected no warmth. "I take it you don't feel that way any more?" His tone made it a question, and Ellison nodded. 

"No, sir, I don't." 

"Elaborate, Major. Pretend I haven't just read your, ah, entertaining reports, and explain Blair Sandburg to me." 

Jim grimaced. "He's being a bit difficult about this military thing, I know sir. But he will come around." 

Davison raised an eyebrow, and gestured towards a small screen set in the bookcase. 

Jim watched as Sandburg stalked into the very office they were now in, ignore the General's greeting and offered handshake, and tell his commanding officer where to put his job offer in the coldest, most polite tones that he had ever heard from the man. 

Davison froze the screen and turned back to Ellison. "That does not sound to me like a man who will come around." 

"I've just got to talk to him," he replied firmly, and held Davison's sceptical gaze evenly. "He has to." 

"I think you'll find that Mr. Sandburg places very little weight on your opinion at present, Major Ellison. Your guide made a number of extremely good points regarding his presence here, and I am not particularly inclined to believe that he will change his mind." 

"Sir!" Ellison jumped to his feet. "Just because he mouthed off a little doesn't mean he's a washout. He's intelligent, sly, resourceful. He knows when to follow the rules and when to break them. He can handle weapons, and has the survival instinct to turn anything to hand into a weapon if needed. We're a team. We're a team that works, dammit, exactly what you've wanted for the last twenty years since we found out about my senses." 

Davison smiled thinly and settled back in his chair. "Sit down Ellison. We're hardly about to throw him off the base less than twenty-four hours after getting him here. I said, sit down." 

Jim resumed his seat. "Sir." 

"I wanted to see how you reacted." He gestured at the screen, frozen on Blair's flickering, coldly blank face. "Kidnapping is not a solution I approve of, but in this case I believe you did the right thing." 

"Sandburg is clearly key to your performance. And the longer you two are together the better you perform. Both of you. Sandburg's insights go from interesting to scary when he's with you. Your senses improve by some twenty percent -- at least, that is the conclusion the researchers have drawn comparing our own data on you with Sandburg's records." He scowled, "It's unfortunate that Sandburg is some sort of idealist about international relations, but as long as you feel that it is justified, we'll see what we can do about breaking down some of those barriers." 

Jim Ellison held himself very still. 

"Is there a problem with that, Major?" the general asked. "We have established that you have to have him, and that means we need to have him too, willing and able to work for us." 

His face hardened, and he looked Davison squarely in the eye. "I will deal with any barrier breaking, sir." 

"You aren't really an expert -- and your skills are ten years out of date." 

"Yes sir. But I'm going to be the one doing this." 

"Really." 

"Yes sir. I refuse to let you drug him, interrogate him or reprogram him." 

"But you don't mind doing it yourself?" Davison seemed amused. "After all, you drugged him to bring him here." 

"If it means he will understand why I need him here I will do whatever is necessary." But he didn't sound as confident as the words suggested, and Davison shook his head. 

"I think sentiment is getting in your way, Ellison." 

"Sir, he's a civilian." 

"This troubles you now? Major, you have always accepted before that a certain amount of collateral damage is inevitable in preserving the greater good." 

"Yes sir." Ellison agreed, "But the greater good isn't served by turning my partner into a zombie." His lips twitched for a moment. "Although the peace and quiet might be worth it." 

Davison didn't share the joke. "I think you underestimate the advances in psychological re-orientation in the last ten years." 

"I respectfully disagree. Sir. We weren't able to train or locate a guide in fifteen years. Sandburg just pops up out of nowhere, knows just what to do, and how to handle the senses thing. General, I don't believe that your psychologists will be capable of leaving whatever makes him special intact. And it's not something I'm prepared to experiment on, however much Medical want to get their hands on him and take him apart." 

"You seem to feel very strongly about this." 

"Sir, I thought that was the _point_ of finding a guide." 

Davison smiled unexpectedly. "Very well, Major. Sandburg's re-orientation is your assignment. Please try to keep the noise levels as you discuss it with him to a dull roar. Dismissed." 

Jim Ellison stood automatically, saluted, and marched briskly out of the briefing room, thinking, I forgot how good they were at this. I was played. Damn. Now _I_ have to deal with Sandburg. 

* * *


	5. Covert Ops 5: War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Partner betrayal cuts both ways. Not for the squeamish.

Major Ellison scowled fiercely at his guide. "I suppose you think you've achieved something with this?" he said disgustedly, gesturing at the small, grim room. 

Solitary was not designed for sentinel-guide reconciliation, but, according to General Davison, the army was prepared to compromise this once. It was better than having the two of them able to ignore each other in separate rooms, or worse, yell at each other through the walls of said rooms, and drive the rest of the barracks nuts. Davison had muttered something about seeing who came out alive before he locked the door, leaving the two men in a windowless room, maybe eight feet by twelve. A basin was sunk into one wall, with a toilet in the corner near it; an unmade bunk, a couple of flimsy chairs and a table which seemed soldered to the metal floor were the only other furnishings. 

"Was this my idea?" Blair grinned. "I don't think this was my idea. And I've gotta say, yup. It's way, way better than having you out in the field, murdering and maiming innocent civilians." 

"There's no such thing as innocent," Ellison muttered, eyeing Sandburg as though he would be favourite on his top ten kill sheet. 

"So, what do you want to do?" Blair asked brightly. 

"Get out of here." He bestowed a scathing look on Sandburg, which rolled straight over him. 

"There's two ways to do that. Your way, or my way." Blair folded his arms, and settled into his hard plastic chair as though making himself comfortable for the duration. "And it ain't going to be *your* way." 

"You think you're gonna outlast me on this?" Jim said contemptuously. "You're *not* going to win this one, Sandburg. What I do is too damn important." 

"Riiiight. So important they could do without you for ten years?" he asked, with a patently fake air of eager curiosity. 

"Nine." 

"Nine, ten, whatever. Sounds like you're pretty damn replaceable, Jimbo." 

"Temporarily." Jim corrected, aiming a smug smirk at Sandburg. 

"Big head much?" Blair smiled sweetly at Ellison who shifted abruptly in his chair so he didn't have to look at Sandburg. "Is that your equivalent of 'la la la, I can't hear you'?" he asked interestedly. "Hearing dial right down? But how about touch, still sensing and translating those sound waves, huh?" 

"No, I just don't want to look at your treacherous little mug." Ellison snapped back. 

"Couldn't tune me out, couldya? What's it like, Ellison," he taunted, "a world of silence, and *me* the only sound. You enjoying the feeling?" 

"I could tune you out." 

"Yeah, right." Blair grinned, and slouched comfortably back in his chair. "Do you have *any* idea what all the testing I did showed? What they were designed to prove?" 

"What happened to confidentiality?" He glanced up at the cctv cameras watching them silently from the far corner of the ceiling 

"Oh, that's _good_. Have you seen the file they have on me? Oh, I'm sorry, of course you have. You compiled it. You want confidentiality? Leave the army. Otherwise, it's up for grabs." 

"You can't--" 

"Why not? You want to be part of them, then I figure they're entitled to know exactly what they're taking on. What could there possibly be about you that you wouldn't want them to know, considering you felt perfectly okay about sharing my entire life history, including stuff I never told anyone, so you had to have been snooping in my stuff, and following me around. My Sentinel, the stalker-kidnapper." 

"Hey, at least I didn't end up trashing my career, news at eleven." 

"You know, I'm wondering about that," he said slowly, "I'm wondering why an otherwise intelligent woman would send out stuff that I told her I needed your permission for before I could even send it to my supervisors." He glanced thoughtfully at Ellison, who shrugged. 

"She's an irresponsible flake, that's why." 

"Yeah? But notice how I didn't have time to ask *her* why. You made sure of that. I'm wondering if she *did* ask your permission. I'm wondering if it *was* intercepted by your bosses, and they okayed it to go out. And that's why Sid carried on, even when *I* told him to stop. Because you, and/or your buddies here at jack-boot central told him it was okay." 

"That's pretty paranoid, even for you." Jim said contemptuously. "You think some nameless conspiracy deliberately ran your thesis, just to make you look bad." Ellison laughed, "Big head *much*?" he quoted right back at him, panicking a little. 

Blair laughed too, hollowly, "No. Not nameless," he said softly. "I have a name: James Joseph Ellison." 

"Yeah, right. Naomi the flake, the woman who interfered in your life, in my cases -- even tried to get Simon to chuck you out of Major Crime, remember? This is the woman you want me to believe was a respecter of both our rights?" Jim scoffed, trying to divert Sandburg's line of thought. Blair's mind in full flow was scarily adept at picking up clues and synthesizing out correct conclusions. Mentally, Ellison kicked himself. Hadn't Sandburg always done that? Synthesised out theories that *worked*, from the scant data that his Sentinel offered when things went wrong. He'd just taken it for granted that Sandburg knew about Sentinels. A certain amount of respect tinged his thoughts. It had worked to his advantage over the sentinel thing, and in cases at the PD. This should work out pretty well. Once they got past this whole hysterical 'Sha'n't, won't' thing Sandburg had going about the military. 

Blair narrowed his eyes at him, then grinned sunnily. "An obfuscator never prospers, you told me that, Jim." He stood and took a couple of steps across the room. Turn, and five steps down the long wall. Turn... "I have faith in Naomi," he said softly. "Remember faith? Remember trust? The things I gave you unquestioningly? Remember jumping out of planes, and through windows, and going undercover? Remember being blind? Remember who always believed in you, was there for you when I could be?" His gaze turned pained and self-mocking. "Yes, remember who got thrown out, got murdered, got left behind..." 

"That's not fair -- I--Alex--" 

"Fair? We were talking about *fair*?" Blair said sharply. "I'm sorry, I don't seem to have been around for that part of the conversation. How exactly does 'fair' include drugging me and forcing me here?" 

"That's different - I couldn't help the thing with Alex, you said that yourself." 

"You saying you *could* help what you did to me this time?" Blair kept pushing. 

"No! I -- it-- I have a duty to my superior officers and my country. You're deliberately confusing the issue," he glared at Sandburg, "They *need* me." 

"Yeah. And what a prize *you* are, right? A morose, repressed, unco-operative, malfunctioning Sentinel, who doesn't listen to instruction, least of all from his guide, someone whose priorities were so screwed he chose to kidnap and illegally imprison an American citizen who is morally opposed to the military, in order to force him into the military. Slave-monger. Judas." 

Ellison ignored him, but Blair smiled at the tic developing nicely in Jim's tightened jaw muscles. "So, yeah, tests. Did you know you still register me right through every barrier that I can put in the way? For oh, about a four mile radius? I'm pretty sure that somewhere in that range it slips from focussed on hearing to focussed on telepathy, telempathy, something like that, but I hadn't pinned down the balance point precisely." He shook his head. "You are tied to me so tight, Ellison. You're *useless* without me." 

"No, I--" 

"Try this on for size." Blair whistled shrilly, and Jim had to grit his teeth to prevent the acute discomfort from showing. "Now, if I had a testing kit, I could prove that it is not the decibels, and not the tonal quality that makes it rip right through your head. It's me," Blair grinned cheerfully. "You see, the problem here is not that you brought me with you, but that you *can't* leave me behind. You can be Mr. Military Macho Man 'til the end falls off your sprocket, but *I'm* the one in control." 

Ellison took a deep, calming breath. It didn't work, so he gave in to his first impulse, and jerked to his feet, letting the chair scrape piercingly against the concrete floor and lunged for Blair's throat. "I can fix that if you're dead," he said in a cold whisper. Blair stared calmly back at him, even though his face was flushed and he was having difficulty breathing. 

"No, it won't, Jim," Blair said hoarsely. "You just won't *have* any control." His lips were turning blue and his eyes bulged. 

The door to their joint cell slammed open, and Ellison was dragged off of Blair by a couple of NCOs, who pinned him to the wall. He snarled, struggling to throw them off, until he heard the soft, mocking laughter of his guide. He closed his eyes, turning his head away so he could not even be tempted to look at him as a medic hurried to his side. The man, caduceus and stripes marking him as a corporal in the medical corps, ran gentle fingers over Blair's throat, tutting softly at the bruising and swelling already appearing. Blair flinched as he pressed lightly over his larynx, then nodded painfully as the man asked if he could turn him. He was lifted and tilted to one side, and the medic ran his fingers down his neck then back up to his skull, checking for bone displacement. 

"He should be okay. Not comfortable, but there's pretty much just bruising there," he reported to the senior NCO holding Ellison, a Sergeant Rawlins by his patches. 

"Does he need to go to the infirmary?" he asked indifferently. 

"No, sir. Talking won't be fun for a while," he added, "but he'll get over it. 

"Thanks, Basran." he turned to face Jim squarely, not relaxing his numbing grip on Jim's arm in the slightest. "Sir, we are formally warning you that any further repetition of physical violence will result in your court martial and immediate dishonorable discharge," Rawlins advised him. 

"Understood, sergeant," he said irritatedly, when the silence dragged on, Rawlins obviously waiting for a response. 

The senior NCO and his colleague cautiously released their grip on Ellison, who dropped his hands to his sides and pointedly scrubbed them on his fatigues. 

"We'll be back with your dinner in a couple of hours." He glanced from one to the other. "Try not to kill each other, General Davison will be so disappointed." He nodded to Sandburg and gestured the other soldiers out the room first, before following and locking it firmly behind him. 

"Do we got another Sentinel on base?" 

Jim caught the start of Rawlins' conversation, and opened his hearing as to follow them. 

"Yessir. They're all U.N.G. though." Sounded like the medic. 

"If Sandburg's a guide, and Ellison don't want him, why not pass him on?" a third, unknown voice asked curiously. 

Without any conscious input he was kneeling at his guide's side, muttering, "Mine. No one else gets him. *Mine*!" He laid a possessive hand on Blair's shoulder. "Fucking bastards have no idea what they're talking about. He'll come around." He tried to focus on them again, but the voices passed into the haze of white noise that surrounded the solitary confinement facility. 

"Ya think? 'Cause you've got some great arguments going for you there, Jimbo." Blair said painfully. Bruised blue eyes opened and looked up at him. The strangulation had broken capillaries, and the red on blue effect was pretty gross. 

"Shit, I'm sorry, Chief. You just get to me so bad. Why can't you keep your mouth shut?" He rose to his feet and poured water from the faucet into his hands, bringing it back to Blair, who sipped cautiously at it. 

"Remember domestic abuse calls, Jim?" Blair rasped, "Remember how we used to tell 'em it *wasn't* their fault that some maniac kept beating up on them? That they should leave, even if they couldn't bear to. Especially if they couldn't bear to. How about those husbands who used to sit there and tell us how it wasn't *their* fault, and if she'd only kept her mouth shut..." 

"You saying I abuse you?" He looked away as Blair gave him a 'well, duh' grimace. 

"Come off it, Jim. You dragged me out here, and assumed that I would be okay with it because *you* were okay with it. And then you have the face to ask me why I call myself your friend. That's not friendship. I'm not sure what it is, but it's nothing to do with friendship." He took another sip from Ellison's cupped hands. 

"I--" Jim stared helplessly at the floor, hoping for inspiration. "I figured you wouldn't mind." 

"Sheesh." Blair let his head drop back, closing his eyes. He re-opened one and asked, plaintively, "At what point did I manage to give you the impression that I would be okay with military servitude?" 

"Service." 

"*Servitude*." 

"Think what we could do, Blair. Think of the good we could achieve. Hostage rescues--" he hesitated. "They told me you'd do it, " he finished helplessly, "I thought you'd understand." 

Blair sighed. "I do. I do understand, Jim, but you have to know, I'm never going to be happy in the army. I could have lived with the police," he grimaced, "if I'd had to, I could have taken down someone who was attacking you, or a fellow officer, or those innocent civilians. But it's not *me*, Jim, it's not who I am. I would rather prevent it from getting to that stage, than run in guns blazing." 

"You think I like running in, guns blazing as you put it? That I don't want to prevent it?" 

"No. That's not what I'm saying. You might not want it, but you're more prepared, in your character, in your training and upbringing than I ever could be to do it when necessary. I'm always going to focus on the individual, do they deserve to die, to have me come in interfering for no other reason than I was *told* to do so? At least with the police I see the victims too, Jim, there's a direct correlation between our actions and the safety of others." 

Jim shook his head. "But you won't agree that you *can* see the correlation between military actions and the safety of others?" 

Blair shrugged. "Show me *one* instance where military intervention meant reduced deaths and misery? That resulted in those responsible being punished?" 

"Bosnia, Afghanistan..." 

"Not true, Jim. *More* people died than would have if we had never started bombing - children, women, people who we *know* were non-combatants." 

"You're saying we should just let people commit genocide?!" Jim's face showed his disgust. 

"No! No. I-- I disagree with all armed conflict. If they'd sent the police in, or the UN, or some international war crimes force, I could understand it. But not making war, without ever even having the balls to declare it..." he shook his head, then pressed a hand to his sore throat. "And then they only send them in where there's a military or financial advantage. Tell me why no one cared that tens of thousands of Rwandans were being slaughtered by their neighbours? Tell me that we wouldn't have been there with peace keeping forces if *they* had had mineral wealth." 

"Couldn't you think of us as police officers? Policing countries, not just streets and malls?" 

Blair sighed, then coughed. "Help me up, okay? This floor's cold." 

"Blair?" 

He smiled at him sadly, as he grasped Jim's hand and pulled himself up, then settled on the remaining chair. "It doesn't work like that. I can't wilfully close my eyes to the rest of the world. I'd figured I could cope with the police. And, morally speaking, you're right, there's not that wide a divide between being prepared to kill a criminal and being prepared to kill someone labelled as an enemy. God knows that's why Naomi objected so much to me hanging out with you at the PD, way back when." 

"And?" 

Blair shrugged, his face unreadable. "I have to work through this for myself." 

"We do something necessary, something important. And we can't let those who don't value life win -- we have to deal with them, on terms they understand." Jim insisted. "The only way to stop violence, however little you like it, is with violence - or the threat of it. Once we stop the deaths, then we can focus on punishment, on the causes, and re-education, and welfare. But you need peace for that to happen though, and it won't happen without guns, I'm sorry, Blair, sometimes there's no other way." 

"Okay, fine, I concede that people who attempt to commit genocide aren't going to stop if we ask nicely. But what's the flip side, Jim? We ignore the obliteration of the Kurds? And the systematic atrocities committed by Hutus and Tutsi against each other? Because that's what we've done." His eyes held Jim's, "Why? Because Rwanda has no economic advantage. Because Iraq is an oil producing country, and Turkey has one of the biggest oil pipelines running right up it, and we don't want to antagonise their leaderships by protesting their actions. Kuwait - it wasn't about freedom, it just made a nice slogan. It was about oil production, and the control of black gold in the Persian Gulf. So we stopped the conflict in the former Yugoslavia -- along with the Europeans who were more worried about spillover into their own countries than anything else. How long ago was that? And they're now just trying Milosevic, no thanks to the US, who've blocked every attempt to create an International War Crimes Court, in case Americans - *us*, Jim, ended up getting tried there for actions ordered by the US military. What does that tell you about the system you're in?" 

"You're taking individual actions out of context here, Sandburg," Jim visibly calmed himself and stood, turning away to pace the room slowly. "I'm not arguing these with you. You're obviously too damn selfish to care that we *do* help. Americans die to help other countries stay safe and free. We don't initiate any of it. We simply go in if we're needed. So what if we have more than one reason to do it. You don't help at the Y just because it'll look good on your cv. You do it because you see a need, and you want to help." He finished crouched by Blair, looking earnestly at the troubled man. 

"But some people *do*, Jim," he replied gently, "not the soldiers, not *you*, but the generals, the Chiefs of Staff. The politicos, the corporations, not just here, but everywhere, Europe, South America, Asia -- even in supposedly pan-global institutions like the UN security council and the World Bank, are morally bankrupt, bloated with their own greed for money and power. They're not looking for the thing that needs doing, but the thing that ensures their continued place at the top." His tone gentled, "I understand that *you* don't believe that. I know you. You're the guy who's trying to fix the plumbing for the elderly couple downstairs, and won't think anything of it, because that's what you do, that's who you are. There's no other motivation there for you." 

"Can't you -- " Jim rubbed his eyes tiredly, "I dunno. It's not all corrupt, Blair. Can't you accept that we sometimes do good stuff -- even if you think it's for bad reasons? And yeah, sometimes, bad stuff for what seemed liked good reasons?" He looked up suddenly, "Can't you work *inside* the system to end its corruption?" 

"That's what I'm going to have to decide, Jim," Blair said lowly. He laid a light hand on Jim's shoulder, and when Jim made no move to shake him off, began to stroke him, unconsciously trying to soothe him despite their impasse. He laughed, a barely audible sound, as he watched his hand moving. "Because whatever else I'm going to have to learn, I already know this. I may own you -- but you own me just as surely." 

"It cuts both ways." Jim agreed, and let the silence grow, until finally Blair said softly, 

"I'm sorry." 

* * *


End file.
